


Priming

by genarti



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Backstory, Canon Era, Class Issues, Firearms Practice, Fluff, Fluff by Les Mis standards anyway, Friendship, Gen, Guns, Minor/Background Animal Harm, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 01:44:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2006274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genarti/pseuds/genarti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If it comes to shooting," said Courfeyrac.  He stopped a moment, and thought.  "When it comes to shooting," he corrected himself, with an air half satisfied and half unsure.  "What kind of marksman are you?"</p>
<p>"No kind," said Feuilly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Priming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bobbiewickham](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobbiewickham/gifts).



> I found out about BobbieWickham's birthday a few days after it happened, and promptly resolved to write her a fic as a belated present. Then I left it half-written for at least a month, because I'm the best at timeliness. Here you go anyway, Bobbie -- happy extremely belated!

"If it comes to shooting," said Courfeyrac. He stopped a moment, and thought. "When it comes to shooting," he corrected himself, with an air half satisfied and half unsure. "What kind of marksman are you?"

"No kind," said Feuilly.

Courfeyrac regarded him.

Feuilly shrugged, stiff-shouldered. "Gentlemen's sons are expected to duel. I was not. No one expected me to need a pistol in my hand. I doubt many had one to offer me in any case."

"Hunting?"

"Angoulême is a city. Of course it happened, but I was never invited along. Since then -- what time I have, Courfeyrac, I use here or in educating myself."

"Yes, of course. Well." Courfeyrac smiled, an unexpectedly brilliant flash, and pressed his arm. "It's laudable -- you're the best of us for applying himself, save perhaps Enjolras. Still. This is a necessary piece of education. We can but hope it'll be needed soon. Anyway, you should have it. Be my guest at the shooting range tomorrow."

"Courfeyrac..."

"I insist. Or with someone else, if you think they'd be a better teacher, but I flatter myself I'm rather capable. Shooting's more fun in company."

Bossuet, Bahorel, even Courfeyrac himself in another mood, would have laughed and waggled eyebrows. Feuilly did neither. He only regarded Courfeyrac from below thick dark brows. Abruptly, he said, "I can't make tomorrow. Wednesday after work, if you like."

"Splendid!" Courfeyrac clapped him on the shoulder again, and raised a hand to summon Louison for wine. Feuilly shook his head at her: no more for him. "We'll make an evening of it."

Feuilly turned his glass around in his soft artist's hands; drank at last. "Yes, all right. I can't promise any skill."

"Of course not. That's what learning's for. You'll pick it up quickly, I'm sure."

* * *

Feuilly did not pick it up quickly.

He did not pick it up slowly either: he was merely a beginner. No dunce, no prodigy. He listened attentively to Courfeyrac's instructions, which were based in part on current observation and in part on slightly muddled recollection of his own childhood tutoring. He held the gun carefully, inspected all its parts, let Courfeyrac show him how to load it, insisted when Courfeyrac would have allowed shortcuts that he should be able to load and prime it to satisfaction before attempting to fire, finally lifted the piece to his shoulder and aimed carefully at the target. A miss. Repeat. The same.

He did not grow frustrated. He regarded the target along the barrel's line with the same steady and thoughtful stare he turned at times on his friends' pages of Latin. He shot again: nearer, though still wide of the mark. A smoke haze surrounded him now; it drifted lazily towards the gallery's high open windows. A chilly day, but the windows' purpose was now clear.

"Am I doing anything notably wrong?"

Courfeyrac tipped his head in equivocation. "Only that you're tightening up too much. Don't clutch at the trigger. Pretend it's a pretty girl's leg you're stroking." Feuilly gave him a dry look. Courfeyrac grinned, unrepentant. "What? It's what my father taught me. Be gentle, lad, be respectful." His voice dropped in imitation, the southern lilt thickening. "And don't jerk at the kickback. Just relax into it."

Feuilly nodded. He reached again for the ramrod.

"Want me to keep watching?"

"That's all right. Do your shooting. Just let me know if you see anything else I should work on."

"I don't mind."

"Neither do I. Go ahead, Courfeyrac."

Courfeyrac shrugged and did so. His shooting proved quite creditable. He was no great marksman, but he handled the gun with an easy grace and surety, and his shots that missed the mark were nonetheless near to it.

Feuilly ignored this display as he ignored the glances Courfeyrac sent his way, as he ignored the party of well-dressed and laughing students who came in a little while later to shoot at pigeons an employee released for them. They sent occasional disdainful or curious looks at the short workman who missed his target with such regularity. Each time, Courfeyrac scowled at them, but Feuilly did not look round. He merely applied himself to his task until he had exhausted the little store of balls Courfeyrac had purchased for him. Then he shook out his arms, set his rifle carefully down, and stood back to watch Courfeyrac's form until his friend noticed.

* * *

"Did you enjoy yourself?" Courfeyrac's voice held a note of hope. He tucked an arm through Feuilly's, which the other allowed.

Feuilly was thoughtful. "No. Not especially. But that doesn't matter. You were right that it's necessary."

"You'll get better soon enough. It's all a matter of practice."

"Yes, I expect so. But that's not what I meant."

"Those others?"

"Who?"

"The fellows having a go at pigeons."

"Oh -- no, I hardly noticed them. Should I have? No, I mean that it's hard to ignore the purpose of the skill. One learns to read for many reasons. It's hard to think of an unworthy one. A trade: to earn a living, to buy bread and a roof for oneself or a family. That's simple enough to see. But shooting: to kill beasts, or to kill men. I'm not learning to hunt."

They walked in silence for a few moments. "Yes," said Courfeyrac at length. "I suppose it's easier to ignore if one learns as a child. It's a game then. Of course it isn't really even then. They're teaching you to not get yourself killed in a duel, or at least to kill the other young idiot too while you're at it. It really is a stupid custom. Of course I know our aims, but it's easy -- it's easier to think of it as a game. Fencing too."

"You won't always be able to," said Feuilly, quietly.

"No."

Courfeyrac tipped his hat to a pretty milliner they passed. She ignored him. They proceeded onwards.

Feuilly glanced up at his friend, and smiled a little. "Well. If I shot at a man today, it would be purest accident if I hit him, so that's one of us being gloomier than he needs to be about the exercise." Courfeyrac laughed. Feuilly continued, "You were right. Thank you for it."

"I often am," Courfeyrac told him. His spirits, irrepressible always, had already restored themselves. "Consider the invitation an open one, I beg you. The lesson is clearly of benefit to us both."

Feuilly said nothing, but he smiled once more. They continued on. Ahead lay the Café Musain. Around them, the streets of Paris: bustling, filthy, charming, bedecked with flowers and with people, miserable, happy, downtrodden, content, alive.

**Author's Note:**

> Shooting ranges did certainly exist in Paris and were frequently used by men of a class expected to duel. Also, I gather from my (admittedly brief) research that using pigeons as targets was indeed, and regrettably, pretty common.
> 
> I have no idea what the interior of them looked like, if one could shoot rifles there or only pistols, whether a workman would actually be uncommon enough to stare at, etc. All of that is me making things up with blithe abandon.
> 
> This takes place in, oh, 1828 or so.


End file.
